Happy Birthday!
by lbc
Summary: It's Wilson's birthday. It's immediately after the episode, Skin Deep. I have taken the liberty of putting the episode and Wilson's birthday next to each other. It's slash with our guys. This is my last HW for awhile so I hope you enjoy.


Title: Happy Birthday!

By: lbc

Pairing: House/Wilson

Rating: adults

Genre: slash

Disclaimer: I sure wish I owned these characters.

Words: 3560

Summary: It's Wilson's birthday.

Note: Follows the episode, Skin Deep.

James Wilson was walking down the corridor of PPTH towards his office. His shin was sore but the limp had basically disappeared. He had not seen the perpetrator of the attack for several hours, but he was naturally cautious and tried to avoid all of his likely haunts.

Unfortunately, he wasn't cautious enough because the limping figure, which suddenly appeared, was intent on stopping him. House stood directly in his way and while he could have walked around the less than stable man, he chose not to.

"You still mad at me?"

"Now what do you think?"

"That's so childish, besides you were right . . . sort of."

"And you know this because . . ."

House sighed, closed his eyes and gave the perfect rendition of Atlas holding up the world. "Cuddy gave me a placebo, and I thought it helped the pain."

Wilson nodded, "I see; well that really makes my shin and head feel better. Thanks for sharing." With that the younger doctor walked away.

Ooh boy, he is still mad.

The rest of the day went down hill from there; not that it had been great before that. Cuddy insisted that House do clinic duty; the ducklings were still traumatized from House's recent encounters with extreme pain, and now his best friend wasn't speaking to him. Well, really, he was speaking but it wasn't sweet nothings."

That night House was alone and spent the night alone. No hookers, no Stacy, and even more importantly - - no Wilson. Intent the next morning on trying to re-open communication House reported to Princeton-Plainsboro in hopes of finding his estranged friend, but he was nowhere to be found. After some less than tactful inquiries, the diagnostician discovered that his friend was tied up in a long meeting on a matter which had been occupying his time for the last month or so.

Finally, the meeting broke up around noon, but when House rushed to the cafeteria, he discovered that Wilson's time was being occupied by . . . of all things - - a party! The nursing staff, Cameron and various others were sitting around some cafeteria tables where a partially demolished cake was sitting. There were some presents on the table as well.

It was at that point that House's razor sharp mind intuitively remembered that it was Wilson's birthday. Oh great. Forget trying to get to him now. He's such a suck up.

House would never have admitted the wistfulness on his face as he walked away from the mob.

Hours later, Wilson returned to his office. He had been unnerved by the kindness of the staff with regards to his birthday. He had spent much of his life alone, even when he had been married. Only Greg House had made a true inroad into his natural reticence. What people didn't understand about James Wilson was that though he slept with women and some men, he wasn't overly social and that had meant a life of isolation. Greg House had occupied the periphery of his life and one day he let the older man in. Now Wilson wasn't so sure that had been a good idea.

Walking into his office, he spotted a small package on his desk. Approaching cautiously, it was obvious that the small wrapped package was some sort of aluminum can. It was wrapped in computer printer paper that had been stapled shut. There was a latex glove, blown up, attached on top with the "fingers" spelling out Happy Birthday.

There was only one person in the world who would have done such a thing. Wilson ripped a piece of the paper to expose the contents which was a can of beer that he favored. Wilson looked at the gift for a moment; dropped it in the waste basket and then turned and left his office for the evening.

Several hours later a member of the clean-up crew enjoyed Wilson's birthday present with great gusto.

HWHWHWHWHWHWHW

It had been a long day for Gregory House. He found that while he loved to provoke Wilson; he didn't like to fight with him, and to have the younger doctor actually not speaking to him was . . . unbearable. Maybe the birthday gift had helped.

Looking at his watch, House limped to his office to pick up his computer and briefcase. Surprised to see the light still on in his friend's office, House looked in and saw the night custodian, cleaning the always spotless office. The man was also drinking . . . Wilson's beer!

House's consternation had no boundaries. How dare the man steal the can off the desk! It had been wrapped as well! "What are you doing with that?"

The middle-aged man looked around in surprise. He hadn't known that anyone was still around or he would have certainly waited to drink the discarded gift.

"Oh, Doctor House. I didn't realize you were still here. I don't normally do this, but I found the can in the refuse so I just opened it. Sorry." The man hesitated a minute then asked quietly, "You won't tell, will you?"

House's hurt that his friend had thrown his present away was so agonizing that the scruffy-faced man could not speak. He merely shook his head and continued on to his office. Within minutes, he was out of the hospital and on his way home . . . the rest of the six-pack tucked under his arm.

House's arrival at his apartment coincided with a major temper tantrum. Except for his computer, he threw almost everything else around. How dare that . . . that gorgeous, adorable idiot refuse his gift! After all, he gave the ingrate a gift, how many other years had House not given him anything?

At that point the unhappy man realized how many times Wilson had given him a present but never said anything when House seemed not to notice his friend's birthday. In fact, the ipod that he clung to faithfully had been a gift from the most annoying man in, at least, 15 states.

His leg was killing him, but he couldn't just walk away this time. He might as well face it, he needed James Wilson even if James Wilson didn't need him. Picking up the remaining five cans of beer which were probably very effervescent by this time, House walked out of his apartment, heading to do battle with that pig-headed, stubborn, angel-faced idiot who made his life complete.

Several minutes later, House began pounding on Wilson's door. Nothing . . . nothing, except a slightly inebriated voice singing something that was unrecognizable. Pounding once again, the "singing" stopped. The slightly slurred words were not understandable except for the very apparent, "Fuck off, House!"

How did he know it was me? House continued to stand outside the door, pounding. When the neighbour down the hall stuck her face outside to see what horde was invading, House's polite and quiet scream of, "The man's a deadbeat; he's playing around with my wife!" got the desired reaction of immediate withdrawal.

The declaration also achieved something else: James Wilson opened the door to yell at the ignoramus who was destroying his reputation. The handsome man stared icily at the blaring bleater, dragging him into the apartment. "House, what do you think you're doin'? Haven't I got enough trouble without you comin' around?" Wilson stopped for a moment as if he were looking around for something to muzzle the menace with, but finding nothing asked sorrowfully, "What the hell are ya doin' here anyway?"

House put on his best forlorn face, holding up the five surviving cans of beer. "Thought you might need some more beer, seeing that you wasted one of them, but I can see you found a substitute or two."

Wilson turned and walked away. "Don't need nothin' from you," then whirling so quickly that he almost passed out, he shouted, "Sides anyone with an ounce of brains would have figured that I was trying to tell you somethin'."

"What? You don't like my choice in beers?"

"House, you cannot hit me in the shin; doubt my diagnosis of your problems, and humilate . . . humiliate me in front of all MY FRIENDS and expect me to be grateful for yer lousy can of beer."

"Why is it when you get drunk your nearly perfect English slides down a bog hole?"

Wilson stood with his hands on his hips, fairly bristling. "Great, now you come over and insult me too. Well, I'll tell you something, Dr. House. You can take your five cans of . . . whatever and stick them up your . . ."

Wilson never made it to the inevitable conclusion because at that moment, his face turned green and he began his run to the bathroom. Several minutes later he returned from said room, white faced but looking better. Wandering into the living room, it was obvious that he was hoping that House had disappeared into the night but was sadly disappointed to see the slender figure seated on the sofa, twirling his cane.

"Are you done keeping the Princeton sewer system occupied?"

The glare that was turned on House would have destroyed a weaker man, but House was made of sterner stuff, he merely nodded at a mug of coffee and said, "Figured you might need that."

"Thanks."

The two men now sat on opposite sides of the room. The temperature had dropped thirty degrees but, at least, they were in the same room and not killing each other . . . yet. Finally, House whispered, "Can I apologize?"

Wilson glared once again then enunciated quite clearly, "Frankly, I don't know what things you CAN do, but I wish you would take your can and go. Some friends wouldn't hit their best friend on their birthday, but apparently you have no rules for such behavior."

House almost smiled, his Jamie looked so adorable trying to remain snooty and yet definitely feeling the consumption of what looked like half a bottle of something potent. His blue eyes sad, House replied, "I didn't hit you on your birthday; I hit you yesterday."

"Well, that certainly makes a difference. MY REAL FRIENDS gave me a cake and some presents, and what did you give me - - a lousy beer."

"It wasn't so lousy - - I paid enough for it."

"That gets me . . . right here." Wilson pointed at his heart or stomach; House couldn't really tell.

"How about we drink these five remaining cans then I'll put you to bed."

Silence pervaded the room as Wilson seemed to be thinking the suggestion over.

In an apparently non sequiter moment, Wilson whispered, "I am not a deadbeat, and you don't have a wife."

A flash of enlightement entered House's eyes, "Don't want one either; rather have you."

The younger man stood very deliberately, "Oh no, not that again. You got me in bed 18 . . . er 19 years ago; then you walked out on me. I don't put out for a lousy five cans of beer."

Now House did smile. "No, that's true. I think it was a pizza, a fifth of whiskey, and some aftershave that first time 19 years ago."

Swaying as if on a rocking boat, Wilson lurched forward, "That does it. You seduced me and you know it, but no more."

"I admit it. What are you going to do about it?"

Wilson stood contemplating the question until the silence became burdensome then he quietly whispered, "I'm going to bed; goodnight, House."

The scruffy man knew he had lost and lost a great deal unless he could somehow retrieve the situation. How did he get into this mess? For more than 10 years Wilson had dished it out as well as he took it. House could always count on the younger man to come back fighting. Nothing got him down: not House's barbed comments, not 3 divorces, not the loss of untold patients . . . nothing. What had been different this time? Had he pushed his friend too far?

The apartment grew quiet. House looked around the room that he knew almost as well as his own. It seemed as if he was always at Wilson's place or vice versa. The guy was easy to be with and asked for very little, except maybe that House take care of himself.

The lights were blazing in the room. Suddenly they seemed harsh and particularly revealing of much that House preferred not to remember. He could hear nothing from the bedroom. His leg was beginning to really ache so he limped towards the sofa where he collapsed. Flicking open the Vicodin , he popped one of the pills in his mouth then laid his head back on the sofa.

Nothing disturbed the sleeping man for several minutes; then the main light went out. James Wilson carefully entered the living room, expecting to see it empty, knowing House's propensity for leaving lights alight at all hours of the day and night. Instead what he saw was the crumpled, exhausted figure of Greg House asleep on the couch in what looked like an uncomfortable position.

Wilson stared for a moment then located a blanket and covered the sleeping man before returning to his bedroom. Several hours later Wilson's bed tilted slightly as some body- weight oozed under the covers.

Wilson had been cuddled up with his back to the invader, who quickly moved to secure his position by "spooning up" to the attractive back that was partly exposed. Placing his arm around Wilson's waist, House fell asleep. For five precarious seconds, James Wilson contemplated throwing arm, invader, and butt out of his domain then shrugged and returned to sleep.

Somewhere around dawn the two men separated so that they were both sleeping on their backs. The darkness was less intense, but there was still that aura of security and the wonderful aroma of his Jamie. Wilson's very nearness was agonizing. The past five years had been difficult, but James Wilson had made them survivable.

House reached over and gently ran his finger along Wilson's chest. "What are you doing?" House jumped two feet when he heard the question.

"Training for the high jump?"

"I MEANT what you were doing with your hand."

"Well, really Jimmy, I thought they would have taught you that in Med School."

"I WAS taught that in Med School; you were my teacher!"

"Oh yeah, I forgot. Then why'd you ask?"

"Because you moron, I was alone in this bed then you decided to do your impression of a sleeping bag and now you're manhandling me."

"I wasn't manhandling you; I was . . . well, I was giving you a medical exam."

"Oh brother, maybe you better examine my shin; that's where you almost crippled me."

"Do we have to go over that again? I'm sorry; I've already apologized; what more do you want?"

Wilson remained silent for a moment then replied, "I want my birthday present."

"Well, you're the one who threw it out; not me."

"Not that birthday present." With those words, Wilson rolled over onto House's partially clothed body. Grabbing House's scruffy face, he soundly kissed his friend.

When Wilson broke the kiss, House managed to gasp, "Does it matter that's it's not your birthday anymore?"

"Does it matter to you?"

"Not a bit."

There was silence in the room except for a few moans while Greg House delivered his present. After several minutes of groping, caresses and release, the two men re-settled themselves next to each other - - almost touching.

"Why'd you get so angry with me?"

"You mean, besides the fact that you cracked me on the shin and possibly crippled me for life?"

"I did not cripple you for life; you big baby. I was trying to demonstrate that when a pain is in your leg; it's not in your head."

"Gee, THAT is profound. And am I supposed to feel good that you don't trust my judgment and diagnosis that perhaps you're having some psychological problems, which might be clouding your judgment?"

"No, but you might have more trust in me, and give me the benefit of the doubt, like Cuddy did."

"Cuddy? You mean the one who gave you the placebo? That's really a lot of trust."

Wilson sat up in bed with his back to the reclining man. House looked at the man in the rapidly lightning room. "I guess I don't like to see the patient even when it's me."

Wilson smiled sadly into the gloom. "You know it's really strange. You felt betrayed by Stacy when she couldn't trust your judgment enough to take the chance that you might die. You totally dismissed my judgment about your possible psych problem and whacked me on the shin to seal your obvious displeasure. What are you doing in my bed? Shouldn't one of us or maybe both of us be feeling really betrayed right now?"

House hesitated. He hadn't really thought of it that way. It hadn't meant life or death, but he had questioned Wilson's analysis. Wilson had questioned his; why weren't they walking away from each other, instead of being here in bed together?

"Don't know, Jamie. Maybe it's because I trust you more than anyone else. Trust is relative; maybe it isn't always absolute, but I know I do trust you."

A small piece of the ice melted around Wilson's heart as he nodded, "I trust you with everything except your life. I don't know if I could have let you to die five years ago. I could never blame Stacy for wanting you to live and doing what she thought would keep you alive."

Wilson laid back down, but avoided touching House as his head found his pillow. After a moment, House picked up the nearby hand, kissing Wilson's palm. "It's not easy being friends with me, is it?"

"No, there are some days I really think that it's me that needs the psych evaluation."

House smiled then a memory entered his head. "I was so jealous of all the presents that you were getting. You were right about your friends; I should have remembered your birthday."

"Oh they were mostly gag gifts; they aren't so much my friends, just people who think I want to get laid."

House's left eyebrow rose at that; not really surprised, but Wilson always seemed boyishly reluctant to admit his sexual attractiveness. "Oh, does that go for Cameron too. I noticed her there with a present."

"Yeah well."

House had known his friend for a long time and those two words spoke volumes. He knew that Wilson was hiding something.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Nothing, it was a nice party and the cake was good."

"Hey, Wilson, don't you go dumb on me; you know what I mean."

"Dr. House, I am not aware to what you are re . . ."

The tongue that was being pressed into his mouth stopped his further denial. The hand rubbing the nub of his left nipple was driving all thoughts from his mind. He wanted more, much more, and then it all stopped: the nuzzling, the caresses, the kisses . . . everything.

"Hey, what are you an Indian giver?"

"No, I just want a straight answer and you ain't gettin' any more until you fess up."

Wilson sighed trying to scoot closer to the warmth that was House. "Okay, okay, the gift Cameron had wasn't really from her. I don't think she even realized what was in it. She gave me a card; the present was from Cuddy, who had asked Cameron to give it to me."

"Cuddy? I knew she was warm for your form, but really!"

"Cut it out, House."

"Well, go on." Even with the darkness, House knew his friend was red in the face.

"I started to open it, but there was a note attached which said to open the gift in private so I took it with me when the party ended.

House scrunched up his puzzled face, "Well, what was it?"

Wilson sighed again and almost squeaked out, "It was a package of glow in the dark, edible condoms."

"What? Cuddy wants to have sex with you?"

"No, you moron, with you. I mean she wants me to have . . . I mean she wants to protect the two of us with safe sex."

"Cuddy knows?"

"The note with the rubbers said, "Happy Birthday, and remember safe sex in a safe House."

House could clearly see his friend's face by now. James Wilson didn't look too terribly upset by the fact that their boss seemed to know about their feelings for each other. He stared into the brown eyes then asked, "So what do you think?"

"You think we should try out my present?"

House nodded. "Yeah, but what are we going to do when we run out?"

Wilson shrugged, "Do what we did in Med School, I guess."

"How many pairs of latex gloves you got here?"

"Enough."

"Happy Birthday, Jamie."

The End


End file.
